Was Jonathon’s influence unhealthy?
She spent the remainder of the afternoon and most of the evening pondering the question. Having always understood when she needed time to look inside herself, her father did not question her suddenly quiet disposition. She feared she was only complicating matters, but the idea that she was being lied to by either Jonathon or her father—or both—had taken root in her head and she could not shake the thought.
She had never doubted that her father loved her and wanted the best for her. He had raised her in the best manner he knew how, and she thought highly enough of herself to applaud him for his effort. He could have left her to the care of a governess, remarried, taken up a mistress, and ignored her. Instead, he made certain to be present for most of her lessons, and had hired help only when he could not teach her something himself. He was her dance master, her vocal instructor, and her etiquette guide. He allowed her to run wild through his estate, but made sure that Chattrecombe first instructed her in the art of boxing, and taught her how to handle a pistol. Felicity’s boxing skills had never been anything to brag about, but she was a crack shot and a fast runner.
Her father was the solid foundation of her life, and she had never doubted his love for her.
Until she met Jonathon, she had not doubted her father at all.
Jonathon had a rather bleak outlook on humanity. While Felicity strived to see the best in people, Jonathon could not help but see the worst. His sour attitude had improved while they wrote one another, and he had even gone so far as to say that his initial impression of some of the ton had given way to his considering many of them his friends. Even when his words were callous she saw beneath them, recognizing his lack of trust as a product of his experience in the cavalry, and perhaps also a by-product of his brother’s treatment of him. He certainly feared his brother, and she suspected that Lord White had something to do with Jonathon’s lack of fortune. Jonathon was responsible; she doubted he would spend frivolously, which was the only way she could see him falling into debt.
She could improve his trust, and felt like she had while they shared each other’s company. She did not want to change him entirely, but he would benefit from a brighter outlook, just as she would benefit from a more realistic view of those around her. Jonathon saw nothing unnatural in suspecting the worst of her father, and she had been shocked enough by his words to suspect that he was telling the truth.
Her father had requested that she speak in a higher pitch while in public, because that was expected. He had told her to hold herself a certain way, and socialize with certain people. She knew her actions could be considered boorish, but her father had told her that was expected and required, and she had not questioned him. Jonathon, however, felt that it was unnatural and unnecessary. He had told her that most men did not like such a cold demeanour, and she had accepted that as the truth considering he was a man, and would obviously know what he liked in a woman. It was far more difficult to suspect her father of wilfully misleading her, but when she was with Jonathon it seemed only reasonable that her father did not wish for her to marry. Everything Jonathon said made sense.
However, everything her father said also made sense. At first glance, Jonathon was the epitome of a perfect fortune hunter. His finances were in dire straits, he was unlikely to inherit a title, and he was handsome enough to get away with aiming higher than his station.
And now her father had agreed to give Jonathon a chance, if Jonathon could prove that he was not a fortune hunter. Felicity had at first wondered why her father had left Chattrecombe in London, but now she could envision the butler remaining in order to keep an eye on Jonathon. Was their escape to the countryside merely a test for the former cavalry officer? A test for her own emotions?
Felicity spent the evening re-reading every letter Jonathon had written to her, but her mind remained muddled. Why would her father tell her to act in a way that, in hindsight, she should have recognized as counter-productive for procuring a husband? It made her think that he had an ulterior motive for keeping her unmarried. Yet, why did Jonathon feel the need to point out her father’s shortcomings? Was he truly a fortune hunter? If he were lying to her, she had fallen in love—or at least become very smitten—with a lie.
She had been afraid to tell her father that she fancied Jonathon, but why? She had never feared her father’s reactions about her emotions before she met Jonathon. Perhaps she had been too naïve and trusting, but was it so wrong to see the best in people? Jonathon liked that about her; he would not try to change her into a woman always suspicious about others when he professed to love her just as she was, unless he were lying.
She could not fathom a world in which both men were telling her the truth. One or the other was hiding something, or perhaps they both were.
Her head throbbed and she rubbed her hands against her temples in an attempt to sort through the convoluted waters of her mind. Her heart told her that Jonathon was true to her, and that he loved her. Her head told her that her father had every right to be suspicious of him. Her heart told her that her father loved her, but her head told her that he had also kept her out of the matchmaker’s hands for a reason. The duke would not leave Chattrecombe in London simply to keep an eye on a possible fortune hunter. There was something else going on in her father’s life, something he thought best kept hidden from her. He meant what he said about allowing Jonathon to court her, but his preoccupation with Jonathon’s finances made her wonder just how much money Jonathon would need to be able to—in her father’s words—provide for her.
London
May 1815
Jonathon’s head pounded like the fall of a thousand hooves against the frozen ground. There were several explanations for this, but while he would not deny brandy as a cause, he felt the root of the issue lay in his inability to sleep.
Nothing helped. He tried various teas, spirits, and even counting sheep, to no avail. After giving up his lease and moving into his brother’s townhouse at the beginning of the year, he had been unable to sleep more than two nights in a row. Though he had gone so far as to fall deep into his cups the previous night, his pocket watch made it perfectly clear that he had made it to another morning without shutting his eyes.
He had decided, while trying to determine the source of the drums echoing in his ears, that if drinking did not help him sleep there was no point in drinking. He had never cared much for strong drink; from now on he would refuse everything but the weakest punch. He had heard enough drums in France to prefer silence in his skull. He would prefer to hear Felicity’s voice, but that was something he desperately tried not to think of.
Jonathon groaned and flopped onto his stomach, hoping that by burying his head in the tattered pillow he could put enough pressure on his skull to ease his headache. If he could move his body, he needed to go down to the kitchen and make himself tea and breakfast. Gregory had made it clear that Jonathon could have a room if he took care of himself and did not distract Gregory’s staff, and Jonathon had actually enjoyed using his cooking skills. Today, however, he would pay a small fortune if it would make a pot of coffee and toast magically appear by his bedside.
Unfortunately, his small fortune was sitting in the stock market, slowly growing into a sum that would hopefully impress Lord Avondale, if the duke ever deemed London worthy of his presence again.
When Avondale first took Felicity from London, Jonathon had not been overly concerned. Chattrecombe assured him that they would return, and after visiting with the kind butler almost every day, Jonathon had no reason to doubt him. Now even Chattrecombe was worried about Avondale’s continual absence, although Jonathon had noted that the butler seemed more concerned about the duke than Felicity. The duke was in some sort of trouble, but Jonathon was unwilling to press Chattrecombe too far for information while the butler was still willing to tell him about Felicity.
Felicity had many friends in one of the small villages near Avondale, and she took great pleasure in teaching the
children how to read and write. She rode through the dales with her father every morning, walked alone through the park every evening, and had taken up crochet as a means of occupying her time when she was left to her own devices. Chattrecombe admitted that Felicity was very upset for the first few weeks, but though she often spoke of Jonathon to her father she no longer frightened her father with her despondency.
Jonathon was grateful she did not suffer because of their separation, but he was constantly struck with the realization that his initial impression of Felicity was more a reflection of his own personality. He had never taken the time to get to know tenants, or help them when a child was sick. He had never even bothered to think about them. His father had never spoken about his responsibilities as an earl and a landlord, and his brother certainly fit the ideal of an absentee landlord. In his formative years he had been without an example of a man who considered the feelings of others. While in the cavalry he had no need to consider the feelings of others; that would have interfered with his position as an officer, and would have made shooting Frenchmen even more challenging than it had been. He had arrived in London with all the trappings of a spoiled child that had been permitted to run amuck. It had taken Felicity’s influence to turn him into a man that desired something more.
She deserved so much more than he could provide; if she truly loved him he needed to prove himself worthy. He needed to stop mentally complaining about his brother’s foul treatment of him, for he understood that a gambling debt was a debt of honour, and thus required payment by whatever means necessary. Holding one’s younger brother at gunpoint did not seem necessary, but if Gregory saw it that way, Jonathon would play along. His funds were safe, discreetly invested in stocks that his brother would never be able to take away. Financially, Jonathon would be able to provide for Felicity if she chose him as her husband.
His temperament needed tending, but he had found it easier to see others in a kinder light when Felicity was with him. On his own he fell into moody grumblings, and he needed to refrain from such poor behaviour. He was a grown man, after all, and had no business acting like a spoiled boy. It would never recommend him to Felicity or her father.
It was painfully obvious that drinking would no longer be a danger, but then he had never had a propensity to drink too much even as a young man. As soon as he could move without fear of casting up his accounts, he would write that information down for her to read. Upon moving into Gregory’s townhouse he started keeping a journal, but he quickly realized that he was writing for Felicity, and not for himself. Poems, tirades, brief notes to say he missed her—they all added up to fill two small notebooks. Lately he had written about Napoleon’s escape from Elba, and current hold on Paris. Jonathon had felt conflicted by the desire to tap into his funds and buy back his commission; all of his friends were now gone, set to teach Napoleon a final lesson. He had always wanted a military career, but now he was unwilling to give up Felicity. She meant more to him than his career. Though he felt that he should be fighting for Britain, he would gladly sit aside and protect his secrets from his brother so that he could present himself as Felicity’s suitor once she returned to London.
He wrote most of the entries at night, when he lay awake and resigned himself to sitting by his small window and staring outside at the stars. He was afraid that was part of his problem sleeping; when he looked up at the stars he could imagine that she was sitting beside him, her hand in his and her head upon his shoulder. They would gaze up at the stars together, point out the constellations they recognized, and murmur their deepest dreams and desires.
That was what he loved the most about Felicity. She was open and honest with him, as no one else had ever been, and he had never before been so certain that he could trust anyone. Their backgrounds and personalities might be as different as love and war, but at night they shared the same heart. With the stars, they could let go of everything else and simply be. They could talk, and laugh, and be the best versions of themselves. If they could share the days, he knew Felicity would teach him to be gentler, more patient, and curb his tongue instead of saying the rude words that sprang from his bitterness. She had also said things that made her appear haughty, but only while wearing the false smile that acted as her mask in the ton. She was a much kinder spirit than she let on, while he was afraid he was not near as kind as he pretended.
The throbbing in his skull started to subside as he pictured the stars and imagined a cool night breeze coming in through an open window, Felicity in his arms. Her soft hair would brush against his cheek as she snuggled closer to him, and he would brush it away only to trace it to her scalp, and pull her head up for a kiss. He had tried not to think about such things, fearing it would only increase his despondency, but imaging her lips against his eased the pain.
He would find the greatest pleasure waking up every morning to her star-like eyes. It seemed unusual to his rational mind for a grown man to feel so in love when the woman of his desires was hundreds of miles away, but not a day had gone by when he did not think of Felicity, for one reason or another. The stars were hers, but so were the flowers and clouds. Anything that brought a smile to his lips made him wonder if she would also smile. After every rain he wondered if she liked to search the skies for rainbows.
Anything sweet and pure reminded him of her, although he knew she could be as spirited as the wildest horse. His cheek stung every time he recalled her second punch.
A faint smile graced his features as he pictured her furious expression, non-grey eyes glittering with emotion. He wanted to see her eyes glitter in such a way again, but he would much prefer that view as a result of passion, not anger. He knew that anger was a form of passion, but he was still thinking of her in his arms, her hair in disarray and her full lips parted in delight as he taught her that a horse was not necessary for riding.
He sighed after hearing the knock against his door, more concerned about why his brother was seeking him out than upset at losing the temptation of imagining Felicity in the throes of passion.
After rolling onto his back he stated, “Come in, Gregory,” as loudly as he could manage. His voice grated against his ears, and he rubbed his throat in an effort to improve the sound vibrating within.
The door clicked open to reveal Gregory’s butler.
“Forgive me, sir, but I thought you might like a cup of coffee and some toast,” he murmured.
Jonathon blinked several times, but he knew the possibility of his eyes and ears failing him at the same time was very slim. “Thank you, Blythe. Gregory must not be in.”
“Lord White left London very early this morning. He said he would be out of town for several weeks.”
“That’s…unusual,” Jonathon managed. Gregory hated leaving London, even for a few days. “Where did he go?”
Blythe looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Avondale, sir.”
If Jonathon’s limbs had not been so cumbersome he would have flown from the bed in a heartbeat. Instead he had to accept the butler’s help to sit.
“Avondale. Why?” His head started to pound again, as if to remind him that he had had a purpose in getting drunk. Unfortunately, the pounding made it difficult to remember any reason besides heartache.
“While you were indisposed last night you told him that you love a woman by the name of Felicity,” Blythe informed him.
“Ah.” Dimly the memories from the previous night returned. “So he’s gone to see Avondale, and try to win her himself.”
Blythe nodded. “I believe so, sir, though it does not make sense to me. I have never known him to have interest in anyone but his mistress.”
“And he did not take her with him?” Gregory always took his mistress with him when he travelled.
“No.”
“Good.”
Blythe looked perplexed. “Good, sir? I would think the opposite if I were you.”
Jonathon slowly shook his head. “No, it is good. He will go to Avondale, make a fool of himself, and Felicity will fig
ure out the truth about my finances and tell her father, who will believe her. I did not think much of Avondale at first, but it is obvious he loves his daughter.
“If my brother arrives on Avondale’s doorstep to court Felicity, he will do everything in his power to win her. He despises me enough to think it his right to steal my money and my heart. Lord Avondale will think it strange that my brother is pursuing Felicity for himself, when he should know that I am still in love with her.”
“What if your brother tells Avondale that you have moved on?” Blythe handed the coffee to John, who downed half of it in one gulp.
“Avondale will not believe him. Chattrecombe, Avondale’s butler, has written well of me. Avondale will not doubt his butler, or his daughter. He will be curious, however, and will hopefully bring Felicity back to London. I could not go to Avondale to beg for her hand; in this way my brother is able to do it for me.”
Blythe regarded him with a curious expression. “That’s very clever, sir.”
Jonathon accepted the compliment after finishing off the remaining coffee. “I am tired of waiting for them to return. I feel that I am in a position to court her without fear for my reputation—or hers—and Chattrecombe has assured me that Avondale is willing to give me a chance, so long as I can prove that I can provide for her.”
“But you are without funds, sir,” Blythe pointed out. “If you had the money to provide for her, you would have the funds to keep your own lodgings.”
Jonathon made a face. “How else was I to keep an eye on my brother, but to live under his nose? I would have much rather accepted Mama’s offer to live in Gloucestershire.”
To Marry the Duke's Daughter (After the Masquerade) Page 6
